


Imagine

by BakerKeen



Series: Let Me Count the Ways [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Bisexual John, Bisexual Sherlock, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Dirty Talk, Humiliation, In Public, M/M, Oral Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 00:45:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4685819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerKeen/pseuds/BakerKeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not that John is unsatisfied with Sherlock, <i>honestly</i>, but dear God he misses breasts. It's getting to be a bit distracting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imagine

Sherlock swooped about the restaurant with an indecent amount of glee. A line cook was found dead and although there had been a knife wound on him, that had not been the cause of death. They'd examined the body with Molly and she was flummoxed as well. Some slight bruising across his abdomen suggested he might've been struck, she thought, but there was no internal damage. The knife wound might've needed some stitches but was nothing life-threatening. Preliminary tox screen came back clear; he'd had some alcohol in his system but nowhere near enough to kill him.

So they'd gone to the restaurant where he worked and had the place shut down. The manager was furious and Sherlock was absolutely delighted; he'd been kicked out of here once, back in his drug using days, and it was incredibly satisfying to return the favor. Donovan and Lestrade were there, interviewing some employees. 

"John --" 

John's eyes snapped up guiltily from a server's breasts. Sherlock outwardly ignored it but mulled it over as he rattled off questions and deductions. Had John been feeling unsatisfied? Was he having second thoughts about their relationship? About being with a man? John was still nervous about sex. Was Sherlock making him uncomfortable? 

Fingers snapped in front of his face and Sherlock realized he had gone silent and still. John was looking at him with slight concern; everyone else was waiting to hear an earthshaking deduction. Sentiment was affecting the work. "He was standing at the counter when he was pushed from behind. The person who did the pushing dropped his knife -- most likely male based on the height and weight -- which slashed the victim on his back. It landed point-down and then skidded. An accident, or perhaps made to look like one. Kitchens are narrow and knives are everywhere, so everyone knows to be cautious; whomever did this was either a complete novice or was pretending to be clumsy ..." 

And they were off. There were no new cooks in the kitchen, which strongly suggested foul play. John and Sherlock moved to a booth in the corner, away from the crowd, looking over the employment files and cross-checking their findings with information in various databases. John was leaned over his laptop when Sherlock murmured, "You're quite taken with the hostess's breasts. You keep stealing glances at them when you think no one's looking." Sherlock continued sorting through the stacks of paper, not looking directly at John. "You also seem to quite like Donovan's top today." His eyes slid up to John's for just a moment as he handed him an employee to search. "The buttons look like they might pop." He returned to the pile of papers. 

John swallowed guiltily. Of course he hadn't dreamed that Sherlock would fail to notice his wandering eyes, nor that he would fail to mention it, but he'd rather hoped Sherlock would wait until they were at home. "Do you think we could possibly discuss this later?" 

Sherlock ignored this, merely licking a finger to flip through the pages more easily. "And of course you found the manner in which Molly's body reacts to the cold of the mortuary to be quite interesting. How serendipitous that she soiled her lab coat with cerebrospinal fluid this morning. She was all the colder and you had a less obstructed view." 

Sherlock handed him the next paper somewhat stiffly, making eye contact for only the briefest moment before dropping it miserably. John stroked his fingers as he took the paper. "Hey," John said softly. Sherlock pursed his lips a bit, looking away. "It's not that I'm not perfectly happy with what we have. Just ... a bit of a fantasy lately. Since the strip club. It doesn't mean anything." 

Sherlock scribbled a note on a copy of someone's ID. "Doesn't it? You've been heterosexual your whole life. You're a 1 on the Kinsey scale. Of course eventually you're going to realize that what we have isn't natural for you. It's understandable," he said firmly, barreling over the protests John was beginning to murmur. "I'm a 5 and I can't imagine it working out with a woman for long." And it _was_ understandable. His heart felt as though it was literally breaking, and he couldn't look at John for fear that the lump in his throat would turn into actual, humiliating sobbing, but it was understandable. It had been glaring obvious from the start but he'd allowed feelings to blind him, to trick him into thinking John could maintain this withhim. 

John grasped Sherlock's knee under the table. "Sherlock. _Sherlock_." Sherlock kept his eyes determinedly on the papers in front of him that John knew damn well he wasn't reading. He sighed. "I'm not a 1, you git." 

Sherlock's head cocked to the side, willing John to continue without using the broken voice that he knew was lurking in his throat. 

"I was already a solid 2 when we met, and that was with naught but a few drunken tumbles in the Army. Then I met you and ..." Sherlock finally met his eyes, trying to master his expression. "I'm finding you _every bit_ as exciting as a woman. I'd say that now that I've a better idea what I've been missing, I'm closer to a 3." He slid his hand up, squeezed his thigh. "Just because I fantasize about women from time to time doesn't mean I'm thinking of defecting." Lestrade was eyeing them with interest now; both of them seemed to notice it at the same moment and shifted apart, focusing on their work once again. Their relationship wasn't a secret, certainly not to Greg, but neither of them wanted to be caught having a Moment in the middle of a case. 

John kept his eyes firmly on the laptop, knowing Sherlock would need a moment to process the conversation. Surely enough, after about a full minute, Sherlock cleared his throat and began moving again, sorting papers into neat piles. "Molly noticed you looking, you know. She liked it. Leaned against the drawers to induce a shiver. She was wishing you'd pinch them a bit. Maybe roll them between your fingers until they tented the front of her top." John licked his lips lightly, trying to focus on typing names into social media searches. Sherlock kept his voice low. "They were absolutely aching with the want for your touch. Her breasts aren't very large, but they are quite ... perky. Beautiful, dusky nipples, that are quite responsive. They were growing tight just under your gaze. Imagine if you were to actually touch them."

John sucked in a breath. This was wrong, he should put a stop to it. Molly was his friend and he shouldn't be fantasizing about her body this way. It was an invasion of privacy to listen to Sherlock's ded-- 

"How do you know what Molly's nipples look like?" 

Silence. 

"Sherlock?" 

Silence. 

"You haven't ...?" 

A huff of annoyance this time. "I did say I was a 5, not a 6." 

John was thunderstruck. "So you have." 

Sherlock condescended to nod. 

"Had sex. With Molly Hooper." 

Sherlock's shoulders were stiff with tension. "Yes, John! For god's sake, it was before I knew you, I don't see why you should be--" 

"That is so _fucking_ hot." 

Sherlock's sharp eyes flew to John's face to assess whether he was being mocked. Pupils blown wide, tongue darting against lips. John shifted his weight a bit, reached down to subtly adjust his trousers. Oh. _Oh._ "Keep searching," he commanded, nodding to the pile of papers. He looked down at his own papers, shuffling through them idly but shamming concentration. "The first time Molly and I fucked," he started, and John stilled for a moment before continuing his hunt-and-peck on the keyboard, "She wrapped her tiny mouth around my cock. And my god, her mouth ..." John shifted his weight again. "She _loves_ to suck cocks. Her mouth is too small to take it very deep, but she uses her hands to work the shaft. At the end, she sucked on just the head while she stroked me off. Milked it right out of me and swallowed it with a grin. She had come dripping down her chin afterward." 

John cleared his throat a bit and _there_ , he was starting to flush at the tips of his ears. Sherlock repressed the urge to lick the one nearest him. "The second time, she sucked me while I had my face buried in her pussy. She likes having two fingers inside her while you suck gently on her clit and run your tongue sideways over it. And when she comes, she cries out and gets _dripping_ wet. And then if you keep going, trace your tongue all along her labia and then circle her clit a few times before sucking a little harder, add a little more pressure on the inside, she wiggles all over your face and then she goes absolutely silent. Her whole body stiffens, and then she humps your face a bit while she comes down from it. She gets goosebumps all over and her tits ..." 

Beside him, John made a strangled, interested noise. He was breathing hard, and the flush was creeping up his face. Getting close. "Her nipples get rock hard. And then she gets very relaxed and giggly and she tells you that her pussy feels empty and she climbs on top of you and holds you still while she sinks down over you. And it's so hot, and she's so wet and tight. She doesn't move right away, just savors the feeling of fullness for a few moments. She gives your cock a firm squeeze and grins like it's the best thing ever when you groan." John was biting his lip hard now, ducking his face a bit to hide it. "God, look at you. About to come in your pants like a horny teenager in front of Sally and Greg. Do you want to come, John?" 

John sucked in a shuddery breath and nodded slightly, not trusting his voice. He was well past the point of no return, had been on edge for the last 2 minutes. "Please," he whispered desperately. 

The whisper of a smile ghosted over Sherlock's face, but he quickly returned to his slightly bored expression as he flipped through papers and files. "When she starts moving, she lets out a little moan, and she bites her lip when you thrust up to meet her. She likes to _ride_. Her tits bounce and she reaches up and pinches her own nipples, moaning like a ..." No, Sherlock couldn't say that, not about sweet Molly. "Her tits would be right by your face, and you'd duck down a bit and guide a hard nipple into your mouth and swirl your tongue around it. She'd moan and tell you to suck, so you would. You'd squeeze both of her tits to your face and you'd turn from side to side, sucking her gorgeous tits like they were some delicious dessert, and she'd start moaning louder, riding you harder. She'd reach down to rub her clit and you'd stop long enough to watch her touching herself -- so fucking hot -- and then all of a sudden, you'd feel her clenching around your cock, and you'd flick your tongue over her nipple while you pushed into her hot, tight pussy and she'd squeeze the come right out of you." 

John stopped breathing, going stiff, and Sherlock watched as he bit his lip and tried to master his features as the orgasm ripped through him. He managed not to cry out and draw attention to him, but anyone looking at that moment would have known. Thankfully, no one seemed to be looking. John started breathing again and looked over to see Sherlock's satisfied smirk. "You're a menace," he managed to gasp out quietly, just before Lestrade strode over to talk to Sherlock. John mastered his features and typed furiously. 

It turned out that Sherlock had actually been researching that whole time. He'd found the most likely culprit (a new server who had a very sketchy private investigator Sherlock knew by reputation as a reference) and deduced the cause of death (bacteria on the knife, causing systemic infection and multiple organ failure). Lestrade and Donovan ran off in a flurry of activity, calling Molly to find out what type of bacteria it was and who was at risk for contracting it. 

They were walking out of the building, John's laptop clasped in front of his body to hide the wetness of his trousers, when John turned to Sherlock. "Was any of that true?" 

Sherlock smiled, a little shyly. "Molly's always been kind to me." 

John's smile was a little too understanding. "You love her." 

Sherlock shook his head. "Not the way she wanted me to. Not like I ..." he let the words trail off, nodding at John instead. 

John squeezed his hand affectionately and stole a quick kiss. "I love you, too."

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, concrit is welcome! I would love to hear what you thought. :)


End file.
